by Karen Rose
Butch heaved a sigh. “And if whoever calls in remembers seeing her with any of the girls, the cops will focus in on them as a connection. I get it. But do we have to get rid of them all? Can’t we keep one or two?”
Butch had issues getting women because he was a cruel SOB—but that had been true even before the meth lab fire that had left him with a face only a mother could love. Actually, Butch’s mother hadn’t loved him either, so that left nobody. Their girls had been . . . unwillingly cooperative partners. If they didn’t cooperate, they experienced Butch’s cruelty firsthand. Just as Linnea had on Friday night.
He drew a breath and tried to be patient, because when Butch got his feelings hurt, he tended to pout. Not an attractive look for him and not a productive mode for either of them. He needed to get this job done. “We’ll get you more, Butch. Don’t worry.”
Butch appeared unhappy nevertheless. “Can I at least do the deed once more with ’em, before I, uh, do the deed?”
He aborted a laugh, snorting instead. “No. You’ll have to make it fast. Three of them are due in”—he checked his watch—“right about now.”
“And then?”
“And then we go to the next hotel and do it again.”
Butch rolled his eyes. “What a waste. Just sayin’.”
“We never keep them long. You know that.” The half dozen girls who worked the university circuit never lasted more than a year. One or two of them were actual college kids. Most were simply hookers who had looked fresh faced enough when they started.
Most of them quit on their own. Those who got old and haggard but wouldn’t quit were cut loose by his business manager, Jolee. Most of them hit the streets solo. He didn’t care. None of them had seen him and if they ever threatened Jolee with either violence or exposure, Butch took care of them and nobody was ever the wiser.
But having Linnea’s face all over the news changed that. Somebody was going to recognize her sooner or later.
And with Voss’s account ledgers falling under the microscope of Kimble and Triplett’s murder investigation, it was only a matter of time before his blackmail payments were exposed. Voss wouldn’t have stood up to the strain of interrogation. He liked to beat up women, but sitting under the lights in an interview room? He’d spill details in a hot minute. Which was no longer a problem, thanks to Uncle Mike.
Still, having six women disappear all at once was going to be tricky.
He pulled three capped syringes from his pocket. “You ready, Butch?”
Butch scowled. “Yeah. Let’s do it. Still say it’s a fucking waste.”
His patience splintered. “Yes,” he bit out. “But necessary. Hurry up. I have to be at church by eleven.”
Butch’s expression was the same as when he ate Brussels sprouts. “Why? You did the cantina thing last night.”
He snorted again, his impatience evaporating because Butch could always make him laugh. “Cantata, not cantina. A cantina is that bar in Star Wars where Han Solo first met Luke and Obi Wan. Today’s just a normal choir thing.” And an alibi. “Get in the closet.”
Butch obeyed, just as the knock came at the door.
He opened the door, smiling at the three women standing on the other side. He didn’t know their names. They matched the photographs sent to him by Jolee.
Jolee recruited new employees and made sure they were trained and showed up where and when they were supposed to. She managed the Web site through which their clients booked appointments and paid, and she handed out the cash to the girls on payday.
He paid her well and she never seemed to regret selling her body or selling out her fellow classmates. Older than the women she managed, she didn’t hit the field as often anymore. Still, she was a team player when needed. She was to be joining the group they were to meet at the second hotel, taking up the slack left by the disappearance of Linnea.
He was going to miss Jolee. She’d been damn good at her job.
“You were sent by Jolee?” he asked. Three nods. One girl smiled back, but the other two looked bored. Well, the two bored ones would have been tagged to be terminated anyway. Employing bored hookers was no way to run a business. “Please come in.”
They did, sitting on the edge of the bed when he motioned them to it. The smiling girl appeared to be their spokesperson. “We were told you’d be hosting a party?” She looked around doubtfully. “Are we early?”
“No, not at all.” With a nod aimed over their heads, he slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the cap from the syringe needle. Butch crept out of the closet, an uncapped syringe in each hand. Ambidexterity was just another one of Butch’s lesser-known skills. He could also move surprisingly soundlessly for a huge guy.
Butch jabbed the syringes in the necks of the two bored girls while he took care of the smiling one. Quickly stuffing gags in their mouths, it wasn’t too difficult to hold them down until the sedative took effect.
They searched them, checking their cell phones to be sure they hadn’t told anyone outside their little group where they were going. The hotel was one of the seedy ones where nobody watched what you carried in or out because they did not care, but he wasn’t taking any chances on being captured by surveillance cameras from the local businesses.
“Let’s load ’em up,” he said and Butch unzipped the three suitcases they’d brought with them. They hefted the women into the suitcases, Butch manipulating their bodies so that they fit. Butch had seen a six-foot-three college kid stuff himself into a suitcase on YouTube a few years back and this was now one of his favorite tricks.
“This never gets old,” Butch said, zipping up the third girl. “Like doin’ a puzzle.”
“So glad I could entertain you,” he said dryly. “Mike’ll be by later to pick up the cars.”
“Is he gonna need me to ride shotgun?”
“Probably. Here, give me a hand with this one.” He grabbed the handle of the largest bag with his right hand as his left arm still throbbed, courtesy of Linnea’s blade. He’d make sure she knew pain before he killed her. “This one’s heavy,” he warned as he and Butch pulled the suitcases from the hotel room to their waiting SUV.
“Jolee’s been feedin’ ’em too good,” Butch grunted as he loaded the suitcases into the cargo bay. Once they picked up the other three, it would be Butch’s job to dispose of all six.
By the time the women were dead, he’d be suited up in a choir robe, singing Handel’s Messiah. As alibis went, it was a good one. Hallelujah.
Chapter Seventeen
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 12:30 p.m.
“Thank you,” he said for the hundredth time as the hundredth person shook his hand. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
People were so much chattier at Christmas. Took for-fucking-ever to get out of the church and into the parking lot. But he had been especially good that morning, he had to admit. The choir behind him hadn’t been that bad either. A few of the members had been a little off-key, but on the whole, they worked well together.
“Daddy, look!” Ariel cried, tugging at the hem of his suit coat.
“Whatcha got, princess?” He slipped his left hand into his pocket, then hefted her up to his hip using his uninjured right. It would keep the other parishioners from trying to shake his hand and maybe help him get out of there faster.
“I made this for you in children’s church. It’s a design.”
“I can see that.” Giant loops and whorls and big gobs of glue dotted the red construction paper, cut into the shape of a bell.
“Smell it!” she commanded.
He complied dutifully. “It smells like Christmas.” Because she’d sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg on the glue. It did smell good, if you could sniff past the glue. But it was a terrible mess. He already had cinnamon all over his suit. “Thank you. I love it.”
&n
bsp; Ariel beamed and smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Good.”
“Let’s go to the car and get it warm for Mommy and Mikey.” He carried her out, put her in her booster seat because she was tiny for her age, and slid behind the wheel. Cranking up the heat, he checked his cell phone for any recent developments.
Like that a bone-skinny hooker had been found dead in a gutter, having frozen to death overnight. I could only be so lucky. But there was no mention of a dead Linnea, or a live one, for that matter. He swiped through a few more news stories and—
“Oh my God,” he muttered. His blood ran cold and it had nothing to do with the outside temps.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Ariel asked with concern.
“Oh, nothing, honey,” he managed. “Just one of the Bengals players got hurt.”
“Goddammit,” she said with a hard nod, but he was too absorbed in what he was looking at to scold her for swearing.
Butch’s face looked up at him from the phone screen. Butch, who’d stayed under the radar for years. It was a slightly grainy photo, taken from a camera overhead. A security camera. It was a bulletin out of Chicago PD, a BOLO for the man wanted for the murder of two Chicago women late the night before.
Goddammit, Butch, he thought viciously. Because now Butch had an ex-date, too. He was past due, in fact. He’d signed his own death warrant the moment he’d allowed his face to be photographed, even with the facial prosthetics. It was not like he’d ever be seen without them, so that was his face. If he went without the prosthetics, he was instantly memorable.
He brought up a text screen and typed one out to Mike, double time, before Rita got in the car and asked what he was doing. Need u to do a job for me.
The reply was instant. OK. What?
Will let u know when I know. Be ready.
Mike sent him a thumbs-up emoticon. And just in time. The back passenger door opened, letting in a gust of frigid air. Rita buckled Mikey into his car seat and hurried to buckle herself in.
“Mercy, it’s cold.” She shivered. “Oh, the heater’s going. Thank you, dear.”
“No problem, sweetheart.” He pasted on a smile. “Let’s go home.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 1:45 p.m.
Lucky kids, Linnea thought, searching the Gruber Academy’s Facebook page on the public library’s computer. Each grade’s teacher had posted photos of their students doing fun, creative activities.
None of these kids looked hungry or afraid. She’d bet none of them had addicts for mothers and their fathers probably treated them like princesses.
Except that one of the kids—Ariel—had a father who was a killer. Among his other sins. Ariel, featured in several of the first-grade pictures, was almost certainly his daughter. They had the same blue eyes. Linnea remembered his eyes with a shudder.
She wondered about the woman who’d married him, who’d given him children.
Could Ariel’s mother know? If so, how did she live with herself? Unfortunately, none of the kids had last names on the school’s Facebook page, so Linnea was no closer to knowing the name of the girl’s father.
But tomorrow would be a special day at the Gruber Academy, their holiday pageant scheduled for early afternoon. Ariel’s class would be reindeer. There were photos of earnest-faced little kids making their own costumes with antlers and red noses.
One of Ariel’s parents was sure to come to see her onstage, playing reindeer games with the other kids. And if Ariel’s daddy brought her to school? Could she kill a man in front of his daughter? He killed Andy in front of me.
But Linnea wasn’t like him. She couldn’t make the child suffer for what the father had done. She would kill him, though. She’d promised Andy revenge. She owed it to him. She owed it to herself. Hell, I owe it to the whole damn world.
She memorized the address of the school and found it on a map, then closed the browser on the library’s computer. Then she went back out into the cold.
She needed a weapon—a gun this time, because she didn’t want to get close enough to him again to use a knife. She was pretty sure she knew where to buy one. Working the streets had taught her a thing or two, after all.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 2:45 p.m.
“Meredith. Meredith, wake up, honey.”
Coming slowly awake, Meredith breathed in the most delicious scent she could imagine. Adam. He sat next to her, smelling better than any man had a right to smell. And calling her honey. She liked that. She liked everything he’d done to her. With her. For her.
She hadn’t liked everything he’d told her, necessarily, because telling her had hurt him, but he’d trusted her with his secrets. That was everything.
“Why?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“Because I have to go in to work.”
Blinking hard, she squinted against the bedside light he’d turned on. The rest of the room was still dark, courtesy of the heavy drapes, but she could see that he was dressed in the suit he’d taken from her house . . . how many hours ago?
“What time is it?” she murmured.
“Almost three.”
She blinked again. “Morning or afternoon?”
He laughed. “Afternoon. I need to go in.” He ran a hand up her arm to caress her cheek. “I should have let you sleep, but I didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone.”
Again. The word he’d left unspoken hovered between them until she dashed it away with a shy smile. “I appreciate it.” Her smile faded as it all rushed back at her—the shooting, poor Andy, poor Tiffany, both dead. Kyle and Shane, grieving. And Adam. My God. Adam. The things he’d seen. That he’d pulled himself back from the edge was testament to his strength. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen completely, irreparably apart. “Has anything new happened?”
“Not sure. I’m going in for a briefing and to take Kyle to meet his parents. They’re supposed to arrive from Michigan in the next hour or so. Shane wanted to see them, too.”
Swallowing a yawn, Meredith sat up. Which was a mistake because her head pounded, like it always did when her sleep cycle got altered. She pushed the pain aside, making herself smile. “I need to set up time to talk to Penny Voss, get the details of what she saw. Should I have them come to the precinct or here?”
“Not here. Tell Mrs. Voss we’ll send someone to bring her and Penny downtown. I can have Agent Troy bring you to meet them later.”
“Kate’s gone?”
“Yeah, gone home to sleep, then she was going to Mariposa House with Cap. She thought letting the girls pet him might calm the tension.”
Meredith sighed. “Wendi said the girls were afraid. I wish I could have been there to help get everyone settled, but I’d just make them targets, too.”
“Wendi’s got it all under control.” He frowned, lifting her chin to study her face. “You’ve got a headache. I can see it in your eyes.”
That he could see what she was normally able to hide should not make her as happy as it did. “Not too bad. Nothing some ibuprofen and a double espresso can’t cure.”
He winced. “Double espresso? I thought you drank tea.”
“At night. I need my caffeine in the morning, especially when morning happens in the afternoon.” She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, gratified when his arms came around her without hesitation, moaning quietly when he threaded his fingers through her hair and began massaging her scalp.
“Better?”
“Umm. Not sure. Need you to do it a little longer.”
He chuckled and kept it up. “Just another minute or two. I need to go.”
With another sigh, she sat back. She could get used to massages like that. Except that it made her want his hands all over her bare skin. “If you can wait twenty minutes, I can go with you. That way you won’t have to make Agent Troy stay here babysi
tting me when he could be helping you guard Shane and Kyle while you transport them.” She pulled the blanket aside, but paused before sliding around him to get out of bed. “If Papa wants to stay, can the officer stay with him? The one who was guarding Shane and Kyle?”
Adam’s gaze dropped to the collar of her pajama top and Meredith was suddenly conscious that several of the buttons had slipped free while she’d slept and her breasts were very nearly completely bared. He drew a deep breath, twin flags of color staining his cheeks. Her own cheeks heating, she began to refasten the buttons, wondering how they’d come loose on their own. They never had before.
Maybe they had help. And I slept through the whole thing? Dammit.
“No need to do that on my account,” he murmured thickly.
Her hands paused, her heart beating against her chest like a hummingbird’s wings. She glanced up, almost whimpering at the sight of his slightly parted lips and the hungry set of his jaw. “You”—she swallowed hard—“are in a hurry, aren’t you?”
He jerked his gaze away. “Yes. Dammit.”
Somehow that made her feel better, as did his scowl when she resumed the task.
“Adam?” she said softly when she’d finished. “Can the officer stay here with Papa?”
He met her eyes, the raw desire in his sending shivers all over her skin. He banked the desire, but slowly, by degrees, taking several lungfuls of air along the way. “No,” he finally said. “First, the officer went off shift and since I was awake, we didn’t replace him. Second, your grandfather’s going downtown with Kyle and Shane.”
“Why?”
“Apparently he and Shane bonded over video games while the rest of us were asleep. Between Shane and Diesel, you’re picking up adopted cousins all over the place. Except for me,” he added glumly. “I got the cold shoulder when I went out there to get coffee.”